


For Cook and Cutlery

by CoffioCake



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: For a Friend, M/M, This Is Fine, based on a friend's spoon-based prompt, from over a year ago, how to exercize soft power through baking, universe where nobody died for unexplained reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffioCake/pseuds/CoffioCake
Summary: When Bilbo mentions missing his family’s collection of spoons, Thorin decides to fabricate a new set himself, even though he's already busy rebuilding his kingdom: welcoming his people, placating former enemies, and keeping his advisors from marrying him off to the next-most politically advantageous partner…Life would be infinitely simpler if Thorin could just focus on convincing Bilbo to stay. Meanwhile, Bilbo might actually get over his attraction to Thorin if he could just return to the Shire…
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 62
Kudos: 190





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cephalopodqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephalopodqueen/gifts).



> *shows up late to the fandom wearing sunglasses, holding coffee* ...uh, I brought? donuts??

From what Bilbo had gleaned en route to the Lonely Mountain, one became cook in a dwarf kitchen by complaining about the food. Nori, current chef of Erebor, had made the mistake of swearing when he burned his tongue on one of Balin’s charcoal-black rabbit legs, somewhere between the Eagle’s Eyrie and Mirkwood Forest. His companions interpreted his yelp of pain as ‘an insulting expression of culinary dissatisfaction.’ The subsequent appointment to ‘cook’ had been instantaneous, and reluctantly accepted.

(But none of Nori’s meals, which the company bravely chewed to pulp, had been quite as horrible as Dwalin’s legendary ‘Elk Turd Pie.’ Kili informed Bilbo in hushed tones that that particular recipe had spawned Thorin’s iron-clad rule forbidding ‘culinary sabotage': Anyone who intentionally sickened, poisoned, or in any way threatened the health of the company with known inedible fare would have their alcohol ration redistributed.)

However, forcing a coerced cook not to poison his companions hadn’t exactly spurred any of the company to craft thoughtful, well-seasoned meals while slogging through the wilds of Middle Earth. Back at home, Bilbo had loved to cook; but on the road, riding ponies, hiking up mountains, and running from orcs rendered him nigh incapable of anything more strenuous than delivering dinner from his bowl to his mouth. Sometimes, even that had become too much exercise. 

Now, holed up in an echoing mountain devoid of books, gardens, and knitting needles, Bilbo possessed nothing but boundless energy and endless time—time to think about home, to miss his garden, and to remember, fondly, the golden age of his grandmother’s silver spoons…

“I would like to complain about the food,” he said from the dusty kitchen doorway, arms akimbo. 

Nori, nose inches from what looked like a cookbook written in dwarvish script, glanced up hopefully. “Really?” 

“You’ve been so generous, divvying your time between clearing the mines and cooking,” Bilbo said kindly. “All I’ve been allowed to do is dust the rooms once the rubble’s gone.” He gestured around the range and the cupboards and the knives hanging from racks along the wall. “I’d like to make myself more useful in a way I hope might suit everyone.”

Nori exhaled, shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you.”

“You’ve done admirably so far, all things considered,” said Bilbo, pulling out a pair of bowls and a rolling pin. “At least you never served us mashed slugs on leaves.”

Nori shuddered. “I still say that was attempted poisoning.”

“You could digest it. As we all proved.”

“But at what cost?”

Bilbo swallowed a grin. “I promise you: no slugs.” He paused thoughtfully. “Although snails, especially in butter and garlic sauce, can be quite delicious—”

Nori sprinted for the door. 

The meeting was supremely boring, even by Thorin’s rising standards. He envied Fíli; his nephew had fallen asleep five minutes into the debriefing and missed Daïn’s finance minister’s monologue on the dangers of trade negotiations with elves. By pure chance, Thorin managed to escape the nattering of his advisors at the end of the meeting. (“A proper consort would secure our borders more assuredly than deals with those leaf-eaters, Your Majesty!”) He got halfway to his chambers before he smelled something fantastic wafting up from the lower levels…

The kitchen was a riot of scents and steam, and Bilbo, tip-toe atop a chair, kneaded dough on the island countertop like its shapelessness offended him personally. Something delicious baked in the oven and something else bubbled enticingly in a pot atop the range. When the kettle whistled, Bilbo glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of Thorin sniffing the air in the doorway, and said, “Could you get that for me?”

Thorin retrieved the kettle, still sniffing.

“It’s steak pie,” said Bilbo. “All we had left in our packs was some jerky and dried vegetables, so, I did what I could. Would be nice to have had something fresh, of course, but I took a tenderizer to the leatheriest bits of meat.” Thumping the dough back into a bowl and setting it aside, Bilbo hopped off the chair and dusted flour from his hands. “Tea?” 

Thorin realized he was still standing with the kettle in his hand and went to fetch mugs while Bilbo spooned tea leaves out of a jar. “I made scones. Still had some blackberry marmalade in my pack. It should be on the lowest shelf in the pantry, if you want any.”

“You crossed half of Middle Earth… with a jar of jam,” Thorin said.

“Marmalade. It’s a miracle it didn’t shatter.”

“Yes.”

“Might have ruined my second-best brocade vest.”

“…Yes,” said Thorin, biting the inside of his cheek. He set down the kettle, peered into the mostly empty pantry, and retrieved the jar. 

He and Bilbo drank their tea and ate their scones in silence until Bilbo, as if sensing the temperature by the noise of the flue, drew the pie out of the oven and set it on the counter to cool. From the marble-walled walk-in ice box (still without any actual ice), Bilbo retrieved another unbaked pie to feed to the flames. 

“Well,” Bilbo said, settling back into his chair. “Should we taste-test—?”

“Yes,” said Thorin thickly, mouth full of third scone. 

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”

Thorin poured himself another cup of tea. Balin’s original schedule required that ‘His Majesty’ head straight to the Great Hall after his morning meeting for a council with the men of Dale—something about poaching near Laketown that Bard had some strong opinions about—and then more talk about Thranduil and the elves from his advisors, although the elves had threatened to halt any kind of peace talks unless the dwarves agreed to trade for vegetables—onions and carrots, primarily.

“I have time.”

Bilbo cut the pie. They watched the flavorful steam coil wistfully toward the sloped ceiling; Thorin leaned eagerly toward his slice.

“I take it this was not quite what you imagined kingship to be,” Bilbo said, licking gravy from his thumb.

“On the contrary,” said Thorin, only momentarily distracted by the flash of Bilbo’s pink little tongue. “I had rather hoped it would be…”

“Tedious? Busy?”

“I would rather haggle with elves about vegetable prices than wage war with them on the plains of the Lonely Mountain.” Even if his advisors thought trading was a waste of time.

Bilbo settled back into his chair. With a sly look, he withdrew his pipe. “Would you care for a smoke?”

“No, thank you. I will need all my wits this afternoon if I’m to resist strangling Legolas Greenleaf with his own insipid braids.”

Bilbo coughed to cover a laugh. “Otherwise, how have you been? Dwalin says you haven’t been back to the treasury.”

“No,” snapped Thorin. Bilbo merely poured himself more tea, but Thorin could see the way his eyes darted toward Thorin’s crossed arms. Thorin uncrossed them. “The madness still… lingers in the corners of my thoughts… on the edges of my senses. The call of the dragon’s gold is… strong.” He looked grim. “Probably always will be.” 

Bilbo set down the kettle. “I’m sorry.”

Another awkward pause, and then Thorin said, “This smells delicious.”

“This?” Bilbo gestured vaguely at the pie. “Nowhere near my best work. Although, usually I have fresh ingredients and spices available.” He flinched. “Not that… this isn’t… I mean, thank you, so much, for making what little we have available… to the kitchens…”

“Of course,” said Thorin stiffly. Tapping his hand against his cup, he curled his lip, cooled the ire from his voice, and asked, “Is that what you miss most about your home, then? The food?”

A blink. And then Bilbo was studying the table without seeing it, running his soft fingers through the grooves, miles away, across forests and mountains and fields of waving grass to a world that, when Thorin had seen it in the light of dawn, had seemed like something out a ballad. Or a fantastic tapestry of some long-lost haven.

“I miss my garden,” Bilbo said at last. “I had just trained the roses to climb the trellis when I left. And I was going to put in another cherry tree in the orchard.” He glanced down at his hands. “I suppose I could plant the acorn from Beorn’s garden there instead…”

“Or you could just plant it here,” Thorin said casually. “Watch it grow. There are lots of oak trees around the mountain.”

“Hm,” said Bilbo. 

Thorin cleared his throat. “Do you miss anything else?” Bilbo muttered something under his breath that Thorin didn’t quite catch. “Sorry?”

Cheeks pinking, Bilbo swept some non-existent crumb from the tabletop. “My grandmother’s spoons.”

“...Spoons.”

“It’s not just the spoons themselves,” said Bilbo heatedly as Thorin fought to keep a neutral mien. “It’s the memories of the meals we—my family and I—shared with them: puddings, jams, and sweet cream after dinner; jellies and cakes and ice cream at Granny Took’s; melon balls with berry cobbler for my mother’s birthday; and honey and caramel sauce drizzled over cakes and crumbles and pies I baked with cousins and parents and friends… And that’s not even mentioning the stews—oh!” He sighed. “Onion and garlic and potatoes with spiced pork, smothered in cheese from my gaffer’s family recipe book… Not to mention the Baggins mushroom soup, the cream-and-spinach recipe the Gamgees traded with us for our secret ingredient soup…” 

Thorin winced. On their trek to the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo had choked down Thorin’s own attempt at stew: a gruel of acorns and grisly squirrel meat, stirred into a poorly seasoned, thinner-than-water broth. Bilbo had slurped it down without complaint, but he hadn’t come back for seconds. Neither had Thorin.

“I could make you a set of spoons,” Thorin said. 

Bilbo started. “No. No, no, there’s no need for—”

“It’s easily done.” Thorin rummaged through one of his pockets and pulled out the spoon from his pack. Balin had unearthed the official golden dinnerware of the Durin clan, but Thorin had been loath to use it or touch anything made with gold or diamonds since he’d come out of his dragon-sick haze. Silver had proven tolerable, so far, but Thorin had kept using one of his old iron spoons regardless. Better not to tempt fate anymore than he already had. “Here.” He offered the spoon to Bilbo. “Keep this. Until I can make you something better.”

Bilbo merely stared. 

Thorin’s lip curled. “Is it not fine enough?”

“No, no, no, no.” Bilbo grasping the handle; his fingers brushed Thorin’s knuckles. “It’s… it’s lovely. I was just…” He swallowed. “I was just surprised. That you would…” He swallowed; Thorin scowled. Without meeting Thorin's eyes, Bilbo flipped over the spoon. “Did you make this yourself?” 

“Why? Does it look simple?”

“No,” said Bilbo quickly. “The maker’s stamp just looks like a dwarvish rune—”

“Yes, I made it,” Thorin snarled. “Go ahead and laugh. The king under the mountain once forged dinner sets for the big folk. And brooches and belt buckles and horse shoes—”

“It’s beautiful,” Bilbo interrupted, sticking out his trembling chin.

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not teasing you every time I open my mouth,” Bilbo snapped. “Just mostly,” he added. His smile quirked up in the corners; mollified, Thorin returned to his stool. 

“Have I ever told you the story behind my grandmother’s spoons?” Bilbo asked, flushing red as he cut their slices of pie. Thorin shook his head. With a slight tremble, Bilbo used Thorin’s iron spoon to carve out a piece of his slice; the handle was too long for him; the spoon looked like a ladle. “It’s not worthy of ballads and tapestries, and I wouldn’t want you to read too much into it, having just offered me a spoon yourself—or even a set of spoons—but, er, it’s… well, it’s the reason for which the whole set is so dear to me…”

Half-listening, mind already on silverware designs, Thorin took a bite of pie. He tasted. He chewed. He savored. He did not moan. _Kings_ did not _moan_ over _pastries_. “Out of curiosity,” he rasped, interrupting Bilbo in the middle of rambling about his grandfather and flea markets, “what could you do with, say, cabbages and carrots? And onions?”

Bilbo’s eyes lit up. “Oh,” he said, “my gran made this absolutely delicious roast with chicken, cabbage, carrots, and potatoes… Positively mouth-watering. Not to mention my gaffer’s cheese-and-onion soup—”

“Very well,” said Thorin, standing. It would take a great deal of brow-beating to get Thranduil to agree to anything, and the sooner they got the whole trade meeting over with… “If you’ll excuse me, Master Burglar.”

Bilbo raised his cup. “Fair weather, King Under the Mountain. And remember: if it all gets to be too much, tea is at four.”

Dinner that night proved triumphant, limited gastronomical variety notwithstanding. Bilbo served the company and their guests meat pies with a side of baked beans, scones and the rest of the marmalade, and what beer the men of Dale had brewed, alongside another of Bilbo’s pies—a large apple tart with scant blackberry garnish.

By the end of dinner, half-drunk on Dalian wine, the elves and dwarves reached an agreement on beekeeping matters and, by extension, the honey trade. Bilbo only caught snippets of the final deal, ducking in and out of the kitchen to brew tea while Thorin’s party polished off dessert. After clearing plates, Bilbo allowed himself to rest his aching feet on an overturned bucket in the kitchen. Lighting his pipe, he spotted Thorin in the doorway, flushed with success and alcohol. 

Bilbo blew smoke like a dragon. “Never fear, Thorin; no feast will ever compare to your acorn soup.”

“I’m not sure if you outdid yourself, but you certainly outdid me,” said Thorin, dropping inelegantly onto one of the stools surrounding the kitchen island and stealing Bilbo’s tea cup. “Here’s to never drinking another bowl of acorn soup.”

“Or eating Dwalin’s grasshoppers on toast,” said Bilbo, toasting him with his pipe. 

Thorin took a swig of Bilbo’s tart tea and shuddered. “And to not inciting another five-sided war.”

“Especially over nut imports,” Bilbo added, offering him the pipe. “You should have mentioned my honey-and-pecan-drizzle cake. Might have resolved the issue before dessert.”

“Before the main course, you mean.”

Bilbo beamed, trying very hard not to let the compliment, and pipeweed, go to his head. “That good? Truly?”

Thorin cleared his throat. “Your dinner was… more than adequate.” Bilbo’s smile slipped. “I mean…” Thorin seemed to grasp for words. “Your cooking—baking—was remarkably palatable.”

“‘Remarkably palatable’?”

Thorin took a hit from the pipe. Grumbling, Bilbo nibbled on a leftover scone, aware of how Thorin’s bright blue eyes stared at him, desperate and beautiful. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Thorin, dropping his distracting gaze.

Bilbo snatched back his pipe. “‘Remarkably palatable,’” he muttered again.

Thorin had the audacity to laugh, exhaling smoke everywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

Because Thorin must have mentioned during dinner that Bilbo yearned for fresh cooking ingredients, at dawn the next day, Bard arrived from the ruins of Esgaroth with what looked like a whole shoal of fish. For dinner, Bilbo fried them in breadcrumbs and watched as the delegations from Greenwood and Dale, alongside Thorin’s company of dwarves, consumed his labors within minutes, all while arguing over border tariffs. The following morning, Bilbo found his larders stuffed with barrels of apples, pickled vegetables, assorted meats, and fresh squash. One of the dwarves had hiked to the glacier and chipped off chunks for the ice box. It was almost like having a functioning kitchen again.

Over the course of a month, more and more spices—from as far as away as Sutherland and Khand—found their way onto the kitchen’s shelves. Fresh milk and eggs appeared on the shelves in the ice box. And in a gesture of civility bordering on fraternity, Thorin began conducting his diplomatic meetings over lunch. Occasionally, these suppers bled into dinners, which consisted anymore of at least four courses, at Bilbo’s insistence. To fill this need for sheer volume of food, the market in Dale, while still under construction, offered a variety that Erebor had yet to match. The dwarrow guilds’ focus remained fixed upon clearing maker spaces and mines.

Goods flooded into Dale from across Middle Earth in an effort to help the men formerly of Laketown rebuild their lost city. It remained a sore point with Thorin that such generosity was not afforded the people of Erebor during their exile to the Blue Mountains, but he had only ever voiced such opinions in private company. Bilbo, in turn, listened, but stuck to practicalities: over pudding one night, Daïn had told him that a shipment of root vegetables had arrived from Lothlorien. Bilbo wanted carrots for a shepherd’s pie for the next diplomatic luncheon and so, the next day, skirting rubble, he crossed Dale’s south-easterly bridge and followed the main road to the market square.

While a significant portion of the city remained a ruin, the dwarves and men had spent their time restoring living spaces. The dwarves—Thorin’s company in particular—had spearheaded the project. (Their first attempts had been something of a disaster. Bilbo had been forced to point out that, while the new houses were indeed sturdy, they lacked somewhat in height and windows. And no, Thorin, not even a high quality anvil in every room could make up for having to stoop in one’s own kitchen and fumble for matches in one’s lavatory. Thorin had scowled and, through gritted teeth, ordered the dwarves to listen to Bard’s engineers and architects instead.)

Fishing parties had just returned from the lake with fresh catch by the time Bilbo reached the market proper. He wandered from stall to stall quite leisurely, surveying the clams and crabs with the keen eye of a hobbit who had caught his own fish dinners from the tenderest age. He bought a packet of golden raisins to snack on while eyeing the heavily spiced and salted swordfish hanging three stalls over.

“Anything else?” asked the fruit merchant.

Bilbo returned his gaze to the produce on the cart. “Are those really strawberries? At this time of year?”

“I’ve got a bit of an indoor garden,” the fruit merchant admitted with a wink. “Would you like some?”

“Very much.”

As Bilbo, two bags of berries heavier, tottered off to find carrots, a shadow fell over his shoulder and a hand wrestled his packages from his fingers.

“Now really—!” Bilbo snarled, ready to defend his purchases with his fists. But it was only Bard, squinting in the sunlight, a half-smile curling up the corner of his mouth. He was dressed simply, although from his bearing, there were few who would have mistaken him for anyone but the king.

“You intend to fight me over some…” Bard peered into the bag. “Strawberries? At this time of year?”

“The merchant built a greenhouse,” Bilbo said. “I had one back in the Shire. They’re marvelous.”

“You could always ask your dwarven king to build you one upon the mountain side.”

“Thorin’s… busy enough,” said Bilbo. “Are you heading to Erebor?”

“Morning meetings just wrapped up,” said Bard. “I was on my way home from the mountain. Might I interest you in some tea?”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Bilbo formally.

“Not at all. I’m told we have you to thank for the bowls of candied nuts and fruits on the meeting table.”

“And the current cordial. Did anyone try it?”

“Yes. It was delicious. Although, I believe Dwalin doctored his.”

Bilbo huffed a laugh. “Dwalin puts whisky in everything.”

Glancing down the road, Bard asked, “Do you mind if we walk around a bit? See how the construction is coming along?” He took Bilbo’s purchases off his hands. “I’ll carry these, of course, Mr. Baggins.”

“His Majesty is very kind,” Bilbo said, bowing slightly. “I would be delighted to see what progress has been made.” Bard gripped him by the shoulder, smiling. They continued through the square and turned right down a narrow alley. Along the next intersecting street lined with tall, skinny residences, children played with toy boats and chased each other with tiny fishing nets.

“We all miss the river,” said Bard. “Used to be, our roads were waterways and bridges.”

“What about public fountains?” suggested Bilbo. “Or perhaps irrigation channels?”

“People need shelter first,” said Bard. “Still. It’s a little heartbreaking to lose that much of our culture. We were people of the water, once; now we’re stuck on dry land. Some of us will keep our ways; there will always be fishermen. But those toy boats will become toy horses soon enough, and that will truly be the end of Esgaroth…”

Farther up the road, they found houses still missing windows and shutters. The woodworkers had fashioned makeshift roofs pending a full-tile replacement.

“Not a lot of permanent wood fixtures here,” said Bilbo.

“After two fires, I think we learned our lesson.” At Bilbo’s expression, Bard shrugged. “We’ll still keep our craft for shipbuilding. After all, you can’t sail a stone barge.”

“Don’t tell Thorin that,” said Bilbo dryly. “He’ll try. Just to spite you.”

“Thorin Oakenshield building a sinking ship is the least of my concerns,” Bard said grimly. At Bilbo’s expression, he sighed. “Forgive me, Master Baggins. I believe him when he says he has no ill intent on my people.” His lip curled. “But it is hard to forget…”

Bilbo pursed his lips.

“I wake up in the night having dreamt I plummeted from a high place.” He turned his head; the mountain rose high above them, gleaming in the sunlight. “When I look at Thorin now, I see no trace of the madness that choked me over the ramparts,” Bilbo said. “He is still obstinate and proud and infuriating, but… he is ruled by reason. And honor. He is trying to make amends.” He swallowed. “I forgave him before he ever apologized.”

“That might say more about you than him,” Bard surmised. They halted before a more stately home built of white marble. The king’s castle, such as it had been, still remained in ruins deeper within the city; Bard had insisted it be refurbished last after every citizen of Dale received comfortable accommodations of their own.

Sigrid, Bard’s eldest child and daughter, threw open the door. “Your advisors are here,” she said, harangued. “About the usual. They’re camped around our dining room, eating all the good cheese!”

Bilbo backed away. “Should I come again some other time—?”

“No, no.” Bard herded Bilbo inside and down the hall, handed his purchases back to him, and straightened his coat. “But we had best hide your strawberries.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Sigrid, put the kettle on, please. This won’t be a moment.”

Bard’s advisors, a group of grumpy-looking men in fur-lined cloaks and clunky boots, had indeed conquered the length of Bard’s dinner table. One look from their king, however, and they trooped into his office to gripe in loud voices while Bilbo, Sigrid, and Bain, Bard’s son, cleared crumbs off the table. As Sigrid and Bain prepared tea, Bilbo shared his strawberries with Tilda, the youngest child. The four of them tried not the listen at the door, but Bard was equally insistent and verbose. Bilbo only recognized half the uncouth words the rulers of Dale bellowed at each other.

“Ever since the battle, everyone’s been after Da to get remarried,” Sigrid said. “His advisors want him to court some lady from Rhûn. Something about reinforcing old ties with old allies.” She wrinkled her nose. “She’s barely older than I am.”

“They’re trying to get Da to arrange something for us too.” Bain sounded quite mopey. “I said I’m not interested, but the old fusspots don’t care. We’re just… game pieces to them. To be moved advantageously. ”

“Ridiculous,” said Bilbo, outraged. “You’re far too young for any of this wedding nonsense.”

“I wonder if it’s like this for King Thorin,” Bain murmured, still miserable.

Bilbo felt a strange pull in his gut. “I… wouldn’t know.”

“Aren’t you his friend?” Sigrid quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, yes,” said Bilbo uncomfortably. “But we don’t really discuss affairs of state. I’m a confidant, not an advisor.”

A few more minutes and the councilmen traipsed out, ruffled and unhappy. Once the exterior door snapped shut, Bard dropped into a chair and gratefully accepted the tea Sigrid pushed into his hands.

“I’m almost tempted to go through with it, sometimes,” he said after a few sips. “An arranged marriage. Not to the child they’re trying to pawn off on me, but… someone reasonable.” He bit into one of the fruit merchant’s strawberries and gave a happy sigh. “And, of course, whenever I go to Erebor and eat some delicious confection you’ve created, Bilbo, I’m reminded of all the perks of having someone skilled in the kitchen to come home to.”

“I see how it is,” Bilbo deadpanned. “You only want me for my pastries.”

“Speaking of baked goods,” said Bard, “I have a gift for you. Sigrid, do you remember where I…?” They rummaged in the cupboards until Sigrid withdrew a leather pouch. With a flourish and a bow, Bard offered it to Bilbo. “Fresh shipment from Brandywine.”

That herbal scent… Bilbo tore open the packet. “Longbottom leaf!” He threw his arms around Bard’s middle. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“For when you get homesick,” said Bard. He looked very fond.

“I’ll fix you a strawberry pie for tonight’s banquet dessert,” Bilbo said, “that is, if I have any strawberries left…” He gave Tilda, Bain, and Sigrid significant looks as they stared innocently back at him, hands up to their elbows in his shopping bags.

“It is a bargain,” said Bard.

Thorin was doomed to spend the rest of the afternoon in one meeting or another, but he had dedicated the ten precious minutes of his break to tracking down his chief advisor. Dwalin shadowed him unhelpfully to the library where Thorin pushed aside stacks of papers to dig up Balin. He was sitting at a table, his head bent over a ledger; when Thorin cleared his throat, Balin didn’t even twitch. 

“I need more silver,” Thorin tried.

Balin finally glanced up from his reams of notes with an expression that, on a younger dwarf, would have meant, _Are you kidding me?_ “How much silver does His Majesty request this time?”

“Enough to fabricate a full dinner service.”

“Another one?” Balin raised a bushy eyebrow. “How many dinner services does his Majesty require?”

Thorin glared. “The first designs… were poor.” He had modeled Bilbo’s spoons on the dimensions of his brother Frerin’s childhood set that he’d found in their nursery, but the handle shape had looked awkward in Bilbo’s hands. Bilbo hadn’t complained, but Thorin had still flung the whole mess back into the furnace and glowered at it, long after it stopped bubbling and spitting sparks.

“I thought the last three designs looked well enough,” said Dwalin.

“They didn't,” said Thorin.

Balin removed his glasses to rub his eyes. “And would His Majesty prefer to reschedule today’s vital meeting determining his kingdom’s economic destiny or tomorrow’s?” The corners of Thorin’s mouth turned down. “Simply ask a silver guildsman from Daïn’s people to make you a four-hundred piece set by next week—”

“It’s for the halfling,” Dwalin drawled, eyes gleaming. Thorin resisted the unkingly urge to kick him in the shins. 

There followed a brief but pointed pause.

“Ah,” Balin said at last. Then, “You’re making spoons, I take it?”

Thorin scowled. “How—?”

“We’ve heard Bilbo’s story,” said Balin, waving a hand.

“Hunting down spoons,” said Dwalin, equally dismissive. “I suppose it’s quite romantic, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Anyway,” said Thorin, who vaguely recalled Bilbo mentioning an auction—or perhaps it was a rummage sale?—the last time he’d mentioned the spoons, “as far as either of you are concerned, this is just a gift from one dwarf to… his… one of his… closest friends.” Dwalin rolled his eyes. “For services rendered and services… still being… rendered. It symbolizes—”

“—that you could eat him with a spoon,” Dwalin finished wickedly.

Balin flipped through a stack of parchment. “I suppose I could carve out a small period after tomorrow’s meeting,” he mused, ignoring Thorin’s glower and Dwalin’s unrepentant glee. “The mason guild will understand that any dwarf, even a busy king, requires time to craft a courting gift—”

“It’s not a courting gift.”

“It _can’t_ be a courting gift, brother,” Dwalin snickered. “He already gave Bilbo a mithril shirt, remember?”

“That would make this an engagement present, then,” Balin concluded, voice as flat as the plains around the Lonely Mountain. “Congratulations, Sire, on what should prove a long and happy marriage.”

Thorin stared up at the vaulted ceiling, wondering, not for the first time, if any of his forebears had suffered similar disrespect at the hands of their kith and kin. “If you see Fíli,” he snapped, retreating, “tell him he’s to take notes on foreign policy during the meeting this afternoon.”

“Of course, Sire,” Balin said.

“And make sure I get that silver.”

“Anything to secure the continued good humor of our wise and benevolent ruler, Sire.”

Thorin stomped out of the library.

Baking always put Bilbo in a better mood. Either the cake would rise or fall; either the flavors would come out, or they wouldn’t. Between the preparation and the final product, there was nothing to do but something else; so, he kept an ear on the flue while he chopped onions for dinner.

It was Fíli who poked his head into the kitchen with Kíli right behind him, both looking hopeful and hungry.

“There’s some cake in the back,” said Bilbo, “but don’t eat it all and spoil your dinner.” They dived for the larder. “And cut me a slice, too.”

“It’s so good,” Kíli moaned, mouth ringed with icing. “Ugh. Bake my wedding cake, will you Bilbo?”

“He’ll have to bake all of our wedding cakes at this rate,” Fíli said gloomily.

“Oh, not you, too,” said Bilbo. “Bard, Baird, and Sigrid were just telling me—Bard’s people have been after them to form alliances through marriage with every adjoining kingdom.”

“Dale’s just afraid Thorin will lose his mind again and lead us to attack them,” said Kíli matter-of-factly. “And Daïn’s worried Bard still hasn’t forgiven Thorin for going back on their initial deal.” He chewed thoughtfully. “So, really, everyone is _so_ scared someone _else_ is going to make the first move, that they’re arming themselves to the teeth with allies to deter them.”

“And Thranduil’s just egging everyone on,” said Fíli, “because of course he is.”

“Well, he can’t scheme and connive with a mouth full of salad,” Bilbo said. “Fetch me those oranges from the larder.”

“We have oranges?” Fíli gawked. “How did you get those, Bilbo?”

“Sutherland,” said Bilbo. “I gave Bard some of my pie recipes. He traded them at a port in Umbar. Bard’s people came back today with all sorts of citrus fruit.” He paused. “I’m thinking of making lemon cream pie for dessert tomorrow.”

“Who needs advantageous marriages when we have Bilbo Baggins?” Fíli intoned to his brother. They both snickered. “You’ll make a certain person very happy one day, Bilbo.”

The memory of Thorin sitting across the table calling his dinner ‘adequate’ made Bilbo sigh. “I very much doubt that.” 

  
By the afternoon, Balin had managed to acquire a goodly amount of silver, and Thorin was determined to start in on his tenth draft immediately. A section of the forges was cleared for the king and his guard. Ignoring Dwalin’s bawdy wolf-whistle, Thorin pulled off his shirt and, with practice and industry, bent himself to the bellows. He became quite lost in the art of sculpting the bone of a spoon, although he couldn’t quite get the spider legs right. He had spent the better part of the last eight meetings doodling designs around the margins of his notes, images inspired by shared adventures; and yet no concept had really stood out. He wanted to present Bilbo with something real that evening over dinner—something that conveyed the general shape of what he was feeling even as he lacked the courage to articulate it clearly. Once he had the spoons—a real, physical offering—he wouldn’t just be peddling sentiments and promises and hollow words, he would be able to give Bilbo something tangible. And worthy of him. And prove by extension that he, Thorin, was also worthy…

Dwalin cleared his throat; Thorin glanced over his shoulder. There was Bilbo, shuffling from foot to foot, avoiding his gaze or, indeed, avoiding looking at him at all.

“What’s the matter?” Thorin demanded.

“Er,” said Bilbo, eyes skimming the tools on the work bench, “it’s, er, it’s about dinner.”

“Yes…?”

“Well… the menu is…” Bilbo took a deep breath. From his tone, he seemed ready to tell Thorin the kitchen had burned down, or that King Bard had declared war and now marched upon the gates. 

“I wasn’t sure what you would like for dessert, besides the strawberry tarts.” Bilbo’s face flushed the color of hot iron. His eyes did not waver from their spot just over Thorin’s shoulder, as if he were fighting some wild urge to stare at something else entirely. “We’ve got apples, so I could make an apple pie, but maybe that wouldn’t be refined enough, and, well, I did just get lemons so I could make a jelly—”

“I will eat anything you put in front of me,” said Thorin. “As will everyone at my table.”

“Right,” said Bilbo. His eyes darted down Thorin’s chest before snapping back to meet his gaze, like a disobedient dog yanked by a chain. “I just… wanted to make sure it was something… you would like.” Ruefully, “Better than ‘remarkably palatable,’ at any rate.” He flushed even darker.

Thorin took a step forward, caught Bilbo’s chin between his fingers, and tilted his face this way and that. “Are you alright? You look feverish.”

He could have sworn Bilbo swooned against him, if only for an instant. But then Bilbo backed away, a frightened animal skirting a trap.

“I’m fine—just been in the kitchen and the heat too long—should probably get some fresh air—”

“I’ll come with you,” Thorin offered; Bilbo looked likely to faint in his arms, and Thorin was not entirely loath to the idea…

“No, no, no, it’s fine, I’m fine—” Bilbo gulped, steadied himself. Now he just seemed rueful, embarrassed.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin seriously, “it doesn’t matter to me what you fix.” _Because it’s always delicious._ It always had been; that was another reason why Thorin needed the spoons. Here Bilbo had been cooking elaborate meals and sharing his pipeweed, and Thorin had done little but provide him with shelter and a kitchen budget… He needed to finish these spoons. He needed to convey this feeling in his chest, and give it size and shape and scope and tangibility. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Bilbo, glum. “No. I suppose not.” With a nod to Dwalin, he fled.

Grimly, Thorin put his hands on his hips and returned to his anvil.

“Cousin,” said Dwalin, ever helpful, “I say this as your relation, not your subject.”

“Yes?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Thorin grunted and shoved his tongs back into the fire.

Of course Thorin was handsome. Bilbo had two fully functioning eyes, and a brain of (mostly, usually) sense, and an appreciation for aesthetic balance. But Bilbo had always thought of Thorin’s looks as a sort of… feature, like the face of a mountain or the expanse of a forest: to be coolly, conceptually, and intellectually appreciated, but never coveted. It would have been pointless to want an ocean, for instance, or to reach out for a specific stretch of cloudless sky.

But then there was bare-chested, muscled, chiseled, skin-glistening Thorin, visceral and musky, with strands of sweaty hair clinging to his neck and a streak of soot across his left cheek… And, oh, how Thorin’s blue-gray eyes had gleamed in the fire of the forges, sweat running rivulets down the hard muscles of the chest, the soft curves of his stomach, and the smooth planes of his back…

None of that should have mattered, and yet nothing had ever mattered as much before… and for a moment, Bilbo struggled for the thousandth time to reconcile the lordly dwarf king with his mulish character. How could one person be so loving of his people and yet so frustrating at the same time?

And yet, to be loved like that… like Thorin loved his nephews and the dwarves of Erebor and his company… The thought of that focus ever shifting to…

The kitchens. He had to fix dinner. Bilbo had—a purpose. And a duty. And an opportunity to help Thorin in his efforts to make peace with Bard and Daïn and Thranduil.

It was time to get back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

The spoon looked terrifying. Thorin melted down the miserable thing before Dwalin could make fun of him, and stomped off to dinner, guilty and sore and smelling like soot and metal. His bad mood lasted all the way to the passage outside the grand hall where the ornate double-door stood ajar. A small figure hovered in the entryway with an assortment of trays and heavy plates. Roasted fish, Thorin guessed, sniffing the air. Spritzed with lemon, and spices…. and those small potatoes, smothered in cheese… and freshly baked bread… and a salad for Thranduil, of course, the unbelievable clod…

Thorin had spent a good portion of adulthood ignoring his nose. Having a strong sense of smell in a life that involved sleeping rough and working near village sewers wouldn’t have been ideal anyway. But now, with Bilbo’s cooking rising like perfume from the lower levels to the vaulted halls of his throne room every day, Thorin savored the very air he breathed before the food ever touched his mouth. Inhaling appreciatively, he strolled toward the short figure in the doorway.

“Won’t you join us?” he murmured into Bilbo’s ear. Bilbo squeaked, turned a blotchy scarlet, and nearly dropped his stack of plates. Thorin steadied him with a hand on his back. “Sit next to me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—I’m not properly dressed—”

“Your second-best brocade vest will do nicely, I think.”

“Haha,” said Bilbo as Thorin took the plates out of his hands. “No, really, I couldn’t—”

“Please,” said Thorin. The desire to sit next to Bilbo, to see him after such a long, frustrating day… He hadn’t earned it, but maybe he could have it anyway; a treat for all senses, and a balm for the part of his soul that ached beneath his ribs.

“Alright,” said Bilbo, backing away. “I’ll… I’ll just be a minute.”

Thorin handed the plates to a sniggering Dwalin and climbed the steps to his seat between the two kings of Dale and Mirkwood. Thranduil looked as regal and uppity as ever. King Bard, by contrast, looked almost friendly.

“Late to your own banquet?” Thranduil said.

“There was an issue in the forges,” said Thorin. “My apologies.”

“What are you working on?” asked King Bard politely.

“…Spoons,” Thorin muttered.

“Spoons,” King Bard mused. “For Bilbo?”

“Yes.”

As one of the new kitchen staff rearranged place settings, Thorin considered the beautiful presentation on his plate. Delicately, he sliced and skewered his fish, and dipped it into one of the six sauces Bilbo had arranged along the table.

Curse that hobbit. This bass was even more delicious than it smelled. Now Thorin would really have to put more effort into those stupid spoons.

“The lemon sauce is delightful,” said King Bard around a mouthful of fish.

“As are these candied oranges,” said Thranduil. “I heard the corsairs even sent along seeds for limes and apricots to pay for Bilbo’s recipes; although, without a greenhouse, I fear there will be no point in planting—”

“What’s a greenhouse?” Thorin interrupted.

“Apparently, Bilbo has one back in the Shire,” said King Bard. “Misses it quite terribly.”

“The glass house.” Thorin remembered: the dew-dusted roof had winked cheerily at him in the morning as he and his company had left Bag End. “I could build the metal skeleton, but I am not much of a glassblower…”

“My people are,” said King Bard, dipping another bite of fish.

“As are mine,” said Thranduil. “I myself have made many beautiful glass ornaments for my palace in Rhovanion. A few flat panes of glass would be child’s play by comparison.”

Bard and Thorin exchanged a look.

“Of course, my services would come with a fee,” Thranduil concluded significantly.

“As would mine,” said King Bard. “The price being multiple dinner invitations a week to Erebor, whether we have meetings scheduled that day or not.”

“How alarming,” said Thranduil, uninflected. “Our requests are very nearly identical.”

“…I don’t see how that would be a problem,” said Thorin, pleased and baffled. “I very much doubt my advisors would object to… continued close and peaceful relations.”

“Nor would mine,” said Thranduil.

The doors pushed open for Bilbo, clean and gleaming. Thorin watched him climb the steps to the dais, smile sneaking from one corner of his mouth to the other. “No brocade vest tonight?”

“It’s only for special occasions.”

“And dining with three kings is not a special occasion?”

Bilbo’s nose twitched guiltily.

“Did you get jam on it after all?”

“It wasn't jam, it was mud, and it’s been there at least since the business with the trolls but I didn’t see it until I put my vest on just now and I had to scramble to find something else—“ Bilbo exhaled. “Anyway, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.” He paused. "Though, it seems you started without me."

“Dinner smelled too enticing,” said King Bard. “We were just talking about how delicious your cooking is.”

“It is quite good,” said Thorin.

“‘Quite good,’” Bilbo echoed, voice dry. “I suppose that’s better than ‘remarkably palatable.’”

Bilbo had just settled in, and the tension between Thorin’s shoulders had lessened, when someone uttered a bawdy laugh. Over the hubbub, loud and echoing off the stone walls, Glóin, continuing the tedious conversation from one of Thorin's earlier meetings, bellowed, “Perhaps our king would be better off pairing himself with a different race, like that miscreant, Kíli.”

The table laughed; Thorin stiffened.

“Your advisor has a point,” said Thranduil, ever the charmer, still picking through his salad. “A ruling partner would certainly provide a sense of stability to your crown. Perhaps someone a little more… seasoned. And complementary to your many, many flaws.”

“Thank you for your input, Thranduil,” said Thorin through gritted teeth.

“I believe an alliance with another elf might show a bit too much favoritism, however,” Thranduil continued, eyes glittering. “Selecting from one of the other non-dwarven races might be more inoffensive.” He paused. “A man or woman of Dale might suit, but you would surely prefer someone of similar… stature.” He looked meaningfully at Bilbo who, mercifully, seemed more interested on choosing dipping sauces for his fish than listening to Thranduil. Clearly, hobbits were far more sensible than dwarves.

“With such strong opinions on the subject, I’m surprised you haven’t selected a second bride for yourself, Thranduil,” Thorin said. “I’m sure someone out there would find you… equally inoffensive.”

Thranduil’s beatific smile turned catlike. “I have the advantage of a stable court already, Thorin, king.”

Deathly silence.

“Would anyone care for dessert?” interjected Bilbo. “Bard: tea?”

“Yes, I think so,” said King Bard, sounding like he might laugh. “And definitely dessert. I was promised something with strawberries.”

Bilbo lifted the kettle and tried to lean over Thorin to reach Bard’s cup. Thorin caught his chilly, trembling hands before he spilled boiling water on them both. “Let me,” he said gruffly, prying Bilbo’s fingers loose, and pouring a generous sip for Bard. Then, because Bilbo was still giving him nervous looks, he poured tea for Thranduil, then Bilbo, and finally, himself. Bilbo murmured a ‘thank you,’ his face hot to burning. Thorin felt the sudden mad urge to stroke a soothing finger along his reddened cheeks. Bilbo smelled like pie crust and strawberries and his own musky sweat…

“Perhaps King Thorin has other delights on his mind besides fruit,” said Thranduil, sickly sweet.

Thorin bristled. “Perhaps you should just drink your tea, Thranduil.”

“Gentlefolk,” said Bilbo rather loudly. “I think it’s time for dessert.” With a warning glance at Thorin, Bilbo went out the door. Thorin watched him, irritated, charmed, and oddly sore.

“For a dwarf lord whose ancestors were hewn from rock,” said Thranduil, silky-voiced, “your heart seems very soft.”

Diplomacy be damned. Thorin made a very rude gesture at Thranduil that made Bard choke on his tea. By the time Bilbo returned with dessert, Thranduil had made a grandly disapproving exit.

Bilbo made it to the kitchens without dropping or smashing dishes, but it was a near thing. He found Bombur and Bofur by the stove, sharing day-old pastries and sampling some of the scraps from breakfast.

“How’d it go?” asked Bofur.

Bilbo opened his mouth, flushed painfully to the tips of his pointed ears, and dunked his armful of plates in the wash basin.

“Lovely,” Bofur muttered to Bombur, who took a seat on the stool next to Bilbo. Together, they scraped crumbs off the cutlery.

“Was Thorin in a mood?” Bombur asked.

“At first,” said Bilbo, “and then he warmed up to Bard. But of course Thranduil had to…”

“Be himself?”

Bilbo sighed. “Some mentioned… the arranged marriage business. Again.”

Bombur shook his head. Bofur grunted. “I wouldn’t worry about it, little hobbit.”

“Thorin won’t just marry some dwarf,” said Bombur, “or elf, or man. He won’t marry anyone he barely knows.”

“But… But a marriage… for a king… wouldn’t be a personal choice,” said Bilbo. “It would have to be… political. A strategic alliance to prevent another war, or a reaffirmation of ties that may have grown stagnant or forgotten with age. Thranduil has a point: no one in this region trusts us yet. We have a lot of good will to accrue before our rulers can risk anything that smacks of… self-interest.”

“‘We’?” said Bofur pointedly.

“I was speaking generally, of course.”

“Of course.” Bofur patted him on the shoulder.

“I’m not _really_ worried,” said Bilbo, using his thumbnail to scrape hardened sauce off a plate. He glanced up for a sturdy rag. “I’m sure whomever Thorin chooses to marry…” He caught the other two staring at him. “He’ll choose someone good for his kingdom,” Bilbo assured them. Then he cleared his throat. “Not that it’s any of my business whom Thorin marries.”

“Oh, come now,” said Bofur. “It’s not like you’re subtle—”

“Brother,” Bombur admonished. He stuck another honey cake in his mouth. “Mmh. Are these Beorn’s recipe?”

Bofur groaned. “They’re quite good aren’t they?”

“These cakes are delish—”

“What would I have to be subtle about?” Bilbo snapped.

“Hm,” said Bombur, licking his fingers. “I wonder.” He and Bofur simply grinned at Bilbo.

Waiting.

Bilbo closed his eyes. “Does Thorin know?” His voice felt very, very small.

“Any sensible person would have at least guessed by now,” said Bombur thickly while Bofur muttered, “Probably not.”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo mumbled into his soapy hands. “What if he… What if he sends me away…” He stood. “I have to go. Before he sends me away.”

“Explain that logic to me,” Bofur said. “Slowly.”

“If I stay here,” Bilbo babbled, “best case, I’ll just be… waiting for him, pining for him, in this kitchen where he lets me stay, out of the way; and in the meantime, he’ll be hosting dinners and running a kingdom and falling in love with some dwarf or elf or man and siring more heirs… Worst case, he’ll ask me to leave. For the sake of… whomever he will eventually have to choose. As consort. As… partner.” He looked at them. “You can’t have someone… someone close to you who… who could jeopardize your relationship with your people…”

“Don’t catastrophize and wash,” Bombur ordered. “You’ll break the good plates.”

“But—!”

“Look,” said Bofur. “You… agreed to cater the new border deal between Mirkwood, Erebor, and Laketown, yes? Well, that meeting is scheduled for the following week. You’ve been preparing for it forever—even solicited the help of every able-bodied baker in the mountain to help you prepare the bread rolls.”

“Get to the point, brother,” muttered Bombur.

“What I’m _saying_ ,” said Bofur, “is that, instead of fleeing into the night like a thief, you should see this through like a—like a _friend_ —and talk to the king afterward when he has time and headspace to handle your decision. You can take this week to work and think and formulate how you feel and what you want.” He paused; Bilbo was wincing. “What now?”

“… Do I have to tell him? If he already suspects?”

“You're leaving anyway,” said Bombur. “You might as well be as clear and direct as possible.”

Bilbo’s shoulder’s sagged. “That’s… very sensible.”

“Dwarves are very sensible people,” said Bofur. “Except for our nobles. They’re absolute nutters.”

“Brother,” Bombur chided. Bofur just shrugged and resumed scrubbing forks. 

Bard leaned against the battlement wall above the gate to Erebor while Thorin took up a gargoyle-like stance at one of the gaps along the parapet.

“Thranduil may not forgive you for that slight anytime soon.”

Thorin’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t tell Bilbo that.” 

Bard stared out at the setting sun, the peach-colored sky, the purple clouds to the west. “We had a discussion today, Bilbo and I, about how he would make a lovely consort for a ruler.”

Thorin gripped the edge of the parapet tightly.

“I practically proposed,” said Bard. “He demurred. I was going to broach the question more directly tonight.” Thorin avoided his eye. “He’s an excellent cook, a natural diplomat, a gentle soul, and a great hand with children. Not to mention charming and witty and funny and brave and quite beautiful, in an elfin sort of way. I’d be lucky to have a partner like him. So would any man.” He paused. “Or any dwarf.”

“He’s my friend,” said Thorin. “A comrade. The most loyal… I owe him more than some… clumsy confession. I have to prove myself…” Worthy, that little voice in his head said. The same voice that had stalked him all the way to the foothills of the Lonely Mountain, that had only been overwhelmed in that chamber of gold. The only good thing to come from his madness had been daring to give Bilbo the mithril shirt. At the time, it hadn’t even entered his mind that Bilbo could reject him; a part of Thorin yearned for that confidence now.

Bard glanced out over the plains, at the shining lake in the distance. “Bilbo reminds me of my wife,” he said finally. “She challenged me. We had our share of arguments, but I always fought to see things from her perspective, just as she fought to see them from mine. I listened; so did she. We both knew that it would always be easier to assume to know the other’s thoughts and to make poor decisions based on simple conjectures. It’s harder to listen, to admit fault, and to adjust behavior and expectation. But that harder path was always worth it: it made us better people, made our choices smarter, and made our actions more considerate.”

“What is your point, Bard?”

“Perhaps you should care less about being a ruler worthy of an extraordinary hobbit, and focus more on becoming half of a couple that wants to try something new and different and terrifying together. You want him to trust you, yes? Trust him first.”

Thorin could think of nothing to say to that.

“Thranduil will probably come up here to sign the treatise,” Bard continued. “As will your sister from the Blue Mountains and Lord Daïn of the Iron Hills. Provided you apologize properly to Thranduil”—Thorin snorted—“you will have established enough regional stability to afford a consort of your choosing by next week. You can talk to Bilbo then. And make promises you can actually keep.” Thorin grumbled again and Bard clapped him on the shoulder. “It will not go so poorly, I think.”

“It might.” Thorin grunted. “I still haven’t finished his cursed spoons.”

Bard pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin’s sister Dís arrived the evening of the feast with a train of fashionable attendants. Her dress was well-made but modestly cut with only a few silver accents; the fabric itself stood out, as blue as her eyes—the same shade as Thorin’s. She bowed to her king (and then punched him in the arm for not sending word to her the moment his company reached the mountain), squeezed her sons until they begged for air, and greeted each member of the company with a regal, friendly headbutt. Her strongest comments remained for Thorin, who bore them with his usual glowering stoicism. Once she reached Bilbo, both Dís’ and Thorin’s demeanors changed.

“So.” Dís surveyed Bilbo contemplatively. “You are the halfling Gandalf has praised so heavily for the full duration of our journey.”

“All lies, I assure you,” said Bilbo, bowing. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“Lady Dís of the Blue…” She smiled. “Of Erebor, at yours.” She put her hands upon his shoulder with every intention of offering the standard, violent dwarven greeting; but Thorin slipped his hand between their foreheads.

“Mr. Baggins is rather less thickskulled than the rest of us,” said Thorin to his sister. “Thankfully,” he added with a rueful grin. Bilbo tried very hard to ignore the tender sweetness that bubbled in the pit of his stomach when Thorin looked at him.

Dís glanced around the room. “What of music?”

“We have balladeers from the Iron Mountains,” said Thorin, still looking at Bilbo, “and our talented cook convinced the visiting flautists from Lothlorien to perform for dinner.”

“And some traveling minstrels offered their services to Thorin,” Bilbo added, beaming at him.

“Then why aren’t they playing now?” Dís demanded. “You there!” She waved a hand at the men tuning their instruments. “What are you waiting for? Play me something sprightly!”

The musicians complied, and the dwarves, men, and elves lined up to dance. Bilbo found himself swept across the room by Dís, who seemed to know all the steps, and danced as weightlessly as any elf.

“This one was pretty popular among the men of the Blue Mountains,” she said, clapping and turning. “It’s easy. You’ll catch on.” It reminded Bilbo of summer dances in the Shire near the old tree in the meadow. He’d had many birthdays there; on one very memorable occasion, Gandalf had brought fireworks.

Someone caught Bilbo around the waist and spun him around. It was Thorin, who had joined the dance with one of the noblewomen from Daïn’s kingdom. She and Dís whirled together, laughing.

“I don’t actually know what I’m doing,” Thorin whispered, breath hot against Bilbo’s ear. Shuddering, Bilbo whirled again until he, Thorin, Dís, and the dwarf lady formed a circle, hands interlocked.

“You look capable enough,” said Bilbo and immediately regretted it; there was a glint in Thorin’s eye very like Kíli’s before he engaged in some form of mischief. Thorin seemed about to speak, but their steps led them apart. Bilbo glanced over Dís’ shoulder as Thorin’s partner spun him away. The music sped up; he felt dizzy. He should have been leading, but Dís had lifted him off the ground so his toes barely skimmed the floor.

Finally, the tune changed, the elven musicians taking over while the men got themselves a drink. Dís stopped twirling, and Bilbo fought to catch his breath. Across the room, he could see Thorin swarmed by people—dwarf lords and men and even a few elves, although none of them hailed from the Greenwood.

“I don’t know any elven dances,” said Dís, fanning herself. “I suppose I will have to ask one of these insufferably tall creatures to lead me.” Her burning eyes scanned the sea of revelers until she spotted her son. “Kíli!”

Kíli, who had been drinking with Ori and Fíli, winced. “Yes, mum?”

“Which one of these tall folk is… what was her name again… ‘Tauriel’?”

“Er,” said Kíli.

“She hasn’t… arrived yet,” said Fíli. “None of the Mirk— _Greenwood_ elves have come.”

“None of them?” Bilbo asked, heart sinking.

“Pity,” said Dís sounding anything but disappointed. “Then I suppose now is as good a time as any to eat something.” Imperiously, she looped her arm through the crook of Bilbo’s elbow and swept him across the hall. Bilbo dared to shoot a frightened look back at Fíli and Kíli. Behind them, Thorin was speaking to a swarm of pretty dwarf maids from the Blue Mountains.

“Every noble family is coming out of the woodwork hoping to marry their daughters off to the King Under the Mountain.” Dís sniffed. “They didn’t look at him twice when he was just a poor blacksmith, trying his damndest to keep his people fed and housed and together.” She scowled. “All that greed. And what does it get us? Dragons? Wars? Displacement?”

“Thorin won’t let that happen again,” Bilbo said. He heard a tinkling laugh from one of those pretty dwarf-women surrounding Thorin. He swallowed. “The loss of Erebor is still keen in his mind. He will protect us. You.”

“You have a great deal of faith in him,” said Dís. Across the room, Thorin was politely leading another dwarf maiden to the dance floor. “He is going to have to make some hard choices over the next few months. If the elves will not make peace, we will have to resort to other ways to secure our borders.” She frowned at Thorin’s choice in partner. “He won’t choose someone from the Blue Mountains; it will have to be from the Iron Hills. Someone powerful from Daïn’s court… My brother won’t like being told that…”

“Thorin will always do what’s right by his people,” Bilbo said, surveying the crowd of dancing couples, yet focused on one pair of dwarves in particular. “He will always put their well-being, their happiness and comfort, first.” Across the dance floor, Thorin laughed; it made that tender bit in Bilbo’s chest quiver. “He overcame the worst of his dragon-sickness because he wanted to protect everyone here more than he wanted gold and glory and land.” Thorin was not a graceful dancer like the elves, but he had a certain something when he moved. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. “The one thing on which you can rely, Lady Dís, is that your brother will find a way to make Erebor more glorious now than it ever was. Whatever the cost, he will pay it. Has paid it. Will pay it again.” Thorin looked up at him; his eyes smiled with that same sly, teasing joy. Bilbo couldn’t help but add dryly, “It is perhaps the only benefit to being so incredibly obstinate.”

Dís disguised her laugh with a cough. “You are a true friend to him.”

“…He has intimated as much,” said Bilbo, ruefully. “He did… gift me with a mithril shirt and then tell me he thought I was his most loyal companion… Although, at the time, he thought one of the company of dwarves had stolen the Arkenstone when I had it in my pocket… So, I’m not sure to what degree that counts.” He frowned. “And actually, the other time Thorin said it, he thought he was dying, so, perhaps that doesn't count either… Under duress, people say a great many things they wouldn’t mean or utter otherwise…”

“He gave you the mithril shirt,” said Dís.

“Yes.”

“...During his _dragon sickness_?”

“Yes?"

Dís’ wonder transformed into something else. “Ah,” was all she said.

“…If it’s that valuable,” Bilbo sputtered nervously, “I’ll hand it over immediately. I know that memories— _heirlooms_ —can be—”

“No,” Dís said. She looked over at her brother, now dancing with a different dwarf maiden. “He really will sacrifice anything for his people.” She looked almost forlorn. “I wish the elves had come after all.”

Watching Thorin spin around the room with another dwarf maiden, trying not to think of that fragile, futile hope he'd nursed this week, Bilbo couldn’t help but agree.

Bilbo had, once again, outdone himself; it was he, Thorin, who had failed his people by not making peace with Thranduil. Escaping the cloying gazes of his advisors and the many brides they wished to foist upon him, Thorin made for the kitchen. He would have preferred approaching Bilbo on a high note, with his station and position secure among his own people; but he had planned this conversation all week, and telling Bilbo now was better than not telling him at all.

Bilbo was in the kitchens, cleaning up on his own. He seemed even more morose than Thorin, and Bilbo hadn’t even had to argue with twenty different dwarflords about how their king’s bachelordom was not some sort of dark omen for the future of Erebor.

“Dinner was delicious,” Thorin said. “I feel like Bombur after feast days.”

“Oh, psh,” said Bilbo, pale-cheeked but trying to smile. “Really. The wine did most of the work.”

“The wine was potable,” Thorin admitted. Earlier that week, they’d found fifty barrels buried underneath a pile of rubble in one of the store room caverns deep below the great hall. Only two had smashed; the rest held alcohol that had spent more than a half-century fermenting in perfectly cool, dry seclusion. Bilbo had fallen to his knees and sobbed with joy when they uncorked one of the barrels. “Dwarves aren’t notable for their appreciation of… fermented grape juice.”

“‘Fermented grape juice’,” Bilbo echoed disgustedly. The furrow in his brow momentary disappeared. “Compared to that swill you peddle as mead—”

“I will have you know,” said Thorin imperiously, “that I brewed this last batch of honey beer myself.”

“Balin will be pleased,” Bilbo demurred. “The jewelers were running low on gem polish.”

Thorin hocked a laugh. “You are an insolent creature, Mr. Baggins.”

“I have nothing but respect for your office, Sire.”

“And therefore not much left over for myself.”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty,” said Bilbo. “I have the highest respect for you in all areas in which your are proficient.”

“Ah,” said Thorin warily. “Such as…?”

“The subtle art of gem polish manufacture, for instance.”

Thorin pursed his lips. “Hm.”

“And as a connoisseur of acorn stew.”

“Oh, now, really—”

“And, of course, the small matter of this kinging business,” said Bilbo off-handedly, his back to Thorin, but the tips of his pointy ears glowing suspiciously scarlet. “But really, that doesn’t seem so difficult. You only have to revive an entire civilization, support its growing populace through the harsh winter months, and make allies in the neighboring lands to secure the future peace and prosperity of generations to come.” He waved a hand. “Easy as pie.”

“I am sorry I did not patch things up with Thranduil,” Thorin said, shamefaced.

Bilbo shook his head. His cheeks seemed ruddier than usual. “There are many skills over which you frequently demonstrate mastery, Thorin. You simply need more practice with elven diplomacy.”

Thorin slid a hand across his mouth so Bilbo wouldn’t see the breadth of his smile. “You paint a very flattering picture of me, Mr. Baggins.”

“I’m simply describing the situation as I see it.”

“I fear you confuse flattery for honesty.” Thorin tried to keep his voice level, but something like hope flowered in his chest.

“I fear you underestimate the degree to which I… recognize and admire your abilities.”

Thorin caught him by the shoulder and turned him around. Bilbo would not meet his eyes; his cheeks still glowed pink. “As a king you so admire, I would have you elaborate upon that statement.”

Bilbo grew impressively redder. “I think my king has enough of an ego—”

“ _Your_ king?”

Bilbo froze, his jaw working, his hands fiddling with a wet plate. “A slip of the tongue—”

“I would be your king,” said Thorin, setting the plate aside with shaking hands. He reached for Bilbo’s fingers, but Bilbo curled them into little fists and looked away. Aching, Thorin simply admired the soft curl of his forelock instead; it had escaped its pins to coil about the tip of a pointed ear. Then there were those sweet, pink lips, slightly parted, touchable and yet untouchable…

“Thorin, I..."

Bilbo bit his lip. Heart throbbing, Thorin took another step closer. If Bilbo hadn't turned his head, they would have been breathing the same air. As it was, Thorin clenched his hands so he wouldn't run his fingers along the delicate shell of that pointed ear. To think that such an elfin feature, once so despised, could now provide such temptation...

"I think it is time I… went home,” Bilbo murmured.

Thorin froze. He studied the hobbit.

“This has been a grand adventure. One I could never hope to repeat," Bilbo continued, as if wringing every word from his own throat. "I have made friends the likes of which no other hobbit or man or elf or dwarf could equal. I will spend my life treasuring these memories more than any gold you could foist upon me. But I yearn now for Bag End. Where I am… where I am at peace.”

“We are at peace here,” said Thorin.

"Not according to your advisors. Your people. You need to think of them."

"I do think of them," said Thorin. "I'm thinking of one of them in particular right now."

"I'm not one of your subjects, Thorin."

"You are one of my company." Bilbo shook his head, but Thorin caught his arm. "Don't leave me while I still... have much to prove to you." 

Begging was undignified, and common, and vulgar; but he had been just a blacksmith, once—a commoner, if only by experience, not blood. And no matter how many crowns they piled upon his head or princesses they paraded before him, that artlessness would remain, hammered into the marrow of his bones. _Prove yourself worthy,_ that nasty little voice always said. When had he ever? But there were still so many things he wanted—one in particular, so close, so tender… Was it so wrong, really, truly, unforgivably wrong, to ask, once in a while, for things you didn’t deserve?

“I know,” said Bilbo, brushing off Thorin's hand, "that you you believe you owe me a debt, despite my insisting that it is unjustified—”

“I do not offer you anything out of obligation,” Thorin said desperately. “Just because you have cooked me a few nice meals—”

Bilbo rounded on him. _“Cooked you a few nice meals?!”_ Thorin opened his mouth, but Bilbo drowned him out. “Do you have any idea—can you even _conceive_ of how much time—The energy! And the _planning_!” Bilbo gestured at the mess in the kitchen. “I spend _days_ preparing and assembling and chopping and cooking what it takes you horde of ungrateful cave-dwellers _moments_ to consume!”

“‘Ungrateful cave-dwellers’?” Thorin snarled. “You’re the one that lives in a half-furnished hole in the ground!”

_“‘Half-furnished’?!”_

Words failed them both. Finger by finger, Thorin forcefully unclenched the fists he’d balled behind his back.

“I apologize,” he said at last, stiffly. “It was… I was trying to tell you that I want—that I _need—_ you to stay. I… chose my words poorly. It was ill-done.”

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, turning away, “I can’t—”

“What are spoons compared to _this_?” Thorin concluded, gesturing between them. “What’s an heirloom hope chest or a set of steak knives to trust and camaraderie—” He swallowed, thickly, his mouth dry and sour. “I can build you a greenhouse,” Thorin insisted. “I can make you enough silverware to fill this entire kitchen, I can… I can redesign the wing on the east side so it looks like your home in the Shire, I can till the eastern foothills so you have a garden…” Bilbo shook his head. His eyes were wide, his cheeks a little wet. Thorin felt that tentative, fragile thing in his chest wilt. “What more do you want of me?”

“Stop it.”

“Ask me anything. I’ll make it or I’ll find someone who can make it. Even if costs half my kingdom—”

“Now you’re just being silly,” said Bilbo shrilly. “You’re not free to… You have obligations. To your people." He let out a shuddering breath. “I miss… _my_ garden. And my…my grandmother’s stupid spoons because… someday I will give these trinkets to my nephew and tell him the story behind them. And he will cherish them because he will know… he will feel that same connection, to me and to his family.” He shuddered. “A connection I don’t have here.”

Thorin’s arms hung loosely at his sides.

“You don’t really need me,” said Bilbo simply. “You just need a good cook. And someone who can talk to Thranduil without throwing things.”

“That is not true—”

“I can't stay here, Thorin,” said Bilbo. “I have… for you… ” He choked; tears glittered in the corners of his eyes. “I… I have to think of my future happiness—”

“I am thining of your happiness, too,” Thorin snapped. “Tell me, burglar: what is it you truly want of me?”

For a moment, he thought Bilbo was about to say... But his eyes shuttered and he shook his head.

“Let me go,” said Bilbo miserably. “Just let me go.”

Thorin had been gutted before, cut deep with knives and swords and pikes and spears and arrows; and yet the physical wounds felt uncomplicated compared to this ache. It ran deeper than bone and blood and tissue, twisting and pulling, digging a crude, gushing hole deeper in his chest than the pit of his heart. The air smarted his lungs and thinned his blood, but he kept his back straight; and his eyes, though they could not quite meet Bilbo’s, remained dry.

“Then take your leave.” It felt like ripping some jagged weapon out of a fresh wound. Let it bleed, let it fester. “Whenever you so desire, Mr. Baggins.” How angry his voice sounded while his body remained so dully, relentlessly still. Bilbo, in turn, said nothing; and in the swollen silence, Thorin left first.


	5. Chapter 5

For the first leg of their journey, neither Bilbo nor Gandalf said much of anything. Gandalf kept his pace considerately unhurried while Bilbo tromped after him, the Lonely Mountain decidedly at his back.

Passing through Mirkwood was easier with an actual guide to follow (although the Old Forest Road was just as dark and dour as ever), and the Gladden Fields beyond seemed far more peaceful and sedate without orc hordes hot on their heels. But by the time Bilbo and Gandalf crossed the Misty Mountains, their good run of weather gave way to torrential rain; when they reached Rivendell, Elrond bade them stay, if only until the next break in the clouds. Neither Bilbo nor Gandalf offered anything but perfunctory resistance; and so, Bilbo rested at Rivendell, and found himself with ample time and opportunity not just to admire the scenery, but reflect, perhaps too deeply, upon the kingdom and the people he had left behind.

“What do you think is happening in Erebor?” Bilbo asked Gandalf one night. The had taken seats upon one of the many benches in the pavilions to admire the ferocious tenacity of the storm.

“Quite a lot, I imagine,” said Gandalf, puffing on his pipe. “The fall festivals will begin soon. They used to fly kites in Dale and up on the battlements of the mountain gates, before the dragon. I imagine they will do so again, now...”

Bilbo fidgeted.

“Of course, feastdays were always glorious,” Gandalf continued. “The gift exchanges were quite nice, too, especially since the dwarves were such talented craftsmen. And then there were the jelly-filled pastries, spun sugar candies, fried sweetmeats, the endless supply of hot cider and mulled wine… Of course, if Thorin manages to patch things up with the elves again, Thranduil might condescend to share some of that sparkling vintage he guards so jealously in his cellar, in celebration of renewed tranquility and stability. It goes quite well with candied fruit, in my experience—”

“I’m not going back, Gandalf.”

“I was simply answering your question," said Gandalf blithely. "Having now informed you of the facts, I will cease speaking.” He took an exaggerated drag upon his pipe.

Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“Did you not think the dwarves appreciated you?” Gandalf ventured.

“Thorin could learn a thing or two about how to pay a compliment," Bilbo grumbled. "Or just. How to talk or behave like a person."

“Thorin Oakenshield could stand to learn a great many things,” Gandalf agreed, “but surely your entire adventure was not soured by the behavior of a single dwarf.”

“Thorin’s not just a dwarf.”

“Of course he is,” said Gandalf. “You are just a hobbit, I am just a wizard, Bard is just a man, and Thorin is simply a dwarf.”

“Not to me.” And there it was: the thing that sat in his chest, feeling sorry for itself.

“What _was_ he to you, then?” 

"A friend, a comrade, someone I... admired whom I had the opportunity to help..." Bilbo threw up his hands. “And now he just… feels indebted to me, I suppose." The pipeweed was affecting him, if only secondhand; Bilbo shook himself.

"What made you think he felt indebted?"

"He just kept making me spoons!" Bilbo blurted. "And threatening me with greenhouses! And telling me to plant my acorn on his mountainside!” He flinched. “You know what I mean.”

"I do not." When Bilbo leaned forward to explain, Gandalf held up a hand. "Please don't."

Bilbo sighed. "He just kept offering me... _things._.. Things that, coming from him, would have meant so much to me, but would have held little value to him outside their estimated price. Why? To even some sort of score between us? To... pay for my loyalty with coin and jewels?" Bilbo sighed. "I didn't help him because I sought some form of material compensation."

“Did you explain any of this to Thorin?” Gandalf prodded.

“I…” Bilbo crossed his arms. “Not… directly…”

Gandalf took a puff of his pipe. He sculpted a three-masted ship out of smoke and blow it over the balcony. Carried by the strong, stormy winds, it sailed into the deluge and was lost in the fog. Bilbo's lip curled; he hated Gandalf for being such a prodding meddler, and pipeweed for making Bilbo so chatty.

"Interesting. And what of the iron spoon he gave you?"

"The...? Oh." Bilbo fidgeted. “I left it behind."

“You didn’t want it?”

“Because I _did_ want it.” Bilbo studied his hands. “But he didn't offer it to me for the same reason I accepted it, did he?" Bilbo twisted his hands in frustration. "Keeping it wasn't honest."

“Did he tell you that?” Bilbo opened his mouth a few times, but kept shutting it in frustration. “No,” Gandalf interpreted. “Interesting.”

“ _What_ is so interesting?” Bilbo snapped.

“Oh, nothing." Gandalf took another long, thoughtful drag on his pipe. “But sometimes I think the stubbornness of dwarves is only rivaled by the obstinance of hobbits.”

With a withering look at the second ship Gandalf crafted out of pipe smoke, Bilbo stomped back to his quarters.

Overnight, the storm dwindled to a drizzle until, just before dawn, a sliver of the moon’s face shone through the fraying wool of the graying clouds. They continued toward Bree the next morning.

The only thing worse than losing Bilbo was having to visit Thranduil while Thorin was still sore about it; it felt like falling off a horse, skidding down a muddy road, and then getting stepped on.

“Either you find a way to make peace with the Elf King,” Balin told him baldly, “or Dáin will make you wed one of those twittering noblewomen from the Iron Hills. And not even Lady Dís will try to bully him out of it.”

And so, Thorin found himself reluctantly but determinedly seated at the table in the Hall of the Elvenking, trying not to sneer too obviously at Thranduil’s berry wreath. Thorin himself had not donned a crown since the Battle of Five Armies.

“I can tell your chef is as heartsick as his king,” Thranduil commented. Bombur had packed Thorin a large salad and dressing (made from Bilbo’s recipes) to share at the elves’ table. It lacked something decisive, however; and Thorin, who was loath to touch ‘rabbit food’ on a good day, found the whole meal inedible. "Is it because you left him behind to visit me?"

“Bilbo has gone home to his people,” Thorin said. “He left with Gandalf over a month ago.”

“And when will he return?”

Thorin flinched.

“Ah," said Thranduil in that mocking tone that made Thorin grit his teeth. "And when will you be going after him, Dwarven King?” Thranduil poked his limp bed of lettuce with a fork. “Or have you instead chosen to marry some well-bred incompetent to placate your herd of anxious nannies?”

_Control your temper_ , Balin had warned as Thorin left. _Breathe evenly. Stick to neutral topics._

“I brought you a gift,” Thorin said, clearing his throat. At his nod, Dwalin kicked the trunk they’d carried from Erebor to the Woodland Realm out across the floor. The lid flipped up and a handful of silvery gems, bright as starlight, spilled over the lip to skitter across the floor.

Thorin kept his eyes on Thranduil.

“Are you trying to _buy_ my good favor, Thorin Oakenshield?” the Elvenking said, also without looking at the box and its shimmering contents. “Or to _guilt_ me into giving it?”

“Depends.” Thorin folded his arms. “Which way is working?”

Thranduil’s lips pursed. He lifted his gleaming glass of wine off the table and studied it, as a jeweler might a ruby. “Did Bilbo ask you not to pursue him?”

“He said little to me before his departure,” said Thorin tightly. Bilbo had said goodbye to the _rest_ of the company and told _them_ to drop by Bag End _any_ time…

Thranduil raised a delicate eyebrow. “Surely a king does not need a direct invitation to visit a simple hobbit.”

"He is not simple," Thorin snapped; then, in a much more even tone,"He has made his wishes clear. I will respect them."

“If he did not like your dinner set, simply commission another,” said Thranduil dismissively, setting down his wine. “Surely a mountain full of dwarves has a metalworking guild. There must be hundreds to thousands of dwarves better at silver-smithing than you.”

“Bilbo doesn't need spoons—or anything—from me.” Thorin swallowed. “Nothing I could make for him would ever compare to the treasures of his family, and the home they loved.” He gestured toward the jewels winking at them from the chest. “You and I understand the import of heritage quite well, I think.”

Thranduil leaned across the table, well into Thorin’s space. “I take it he has not told you the story of his grandmother’s spoons.”

Thorin started.

“Bilbo told _you_ that story?”

Thranduil graced him with a very smug look.

“And _you_ listened?” A pause. _“You?”_

Thranduil’s smile vanished. With a grand voice, like a bard before a rapt audience (which consisted in this case of Thorin and Dwalin, who was picking his teeth with his dinner knife, and a politely disinterested clump of elven courtiers), the Elvenking began his tale:

“Long ago, a fire consumed the Took family home. Bilbo’s grandmother was understandably distraught: There were mementos from her parents, paintings of her grandparents, ancestors too far back to be anything but oft-borrowed names, forever lost; trinkets gifted from a dear, departed sister, burnt to ash. And finally, there was the silverware set, which had been passed down from generation to generation of Tooks, melted to nothing more than—”

“I’m familiar with how fire works,” Thorin quipped.

“Get to the good bit,” drawled Dwalin, spitting out something that he’d freed from between his back teeth.

Thranduil’s nostrils flared. “A suitor decided to restore the set of cutlery for Bilbo's grandmother, and he journeyed from the Shire to the Blue Mountains, crossing all the way to the port at the Gray Havens... Yet, he could not find any spoons that matched his dearest's original design. One spoon, of dwarvish make, came closer than any others; but it was party to no set. Still, the suitor bought it, carried it back, and proposed to Bilbo’s grandmother with it. She accepted his suit on one condition: that next time, he take her with him on his adventures.”

“And they spent the rest of their lives assembling cutlery,” Dwalin added with a theatrical snore. "The end."

Thranduil and Thorin ignored him.

“So, on the morning after the wedding, husband and wife set out to collect more spoons, individually made or separated from their sets, each unique in pattern and beautifully wrought in their respective material. The collection continued with a wooden spoon from a friend in Bree, then an iron spoon from a trader from Rohan, and a delicate golden spoon with a floral pattern from Rivendell… On and on, they found orphaned pieces with no like or kind or kin which were, on their own, quite worthless, but which the Tooks adopted and treasured.” Thranduil gave Thorin a significant look. “Bilbo's grandparents collected pieces well beyond the scope of the original loss. It wasn’t about restoring their _collection_ , O Mighty King Beneath the Lonely Mountain, or about connecting with their heritage, or about augmenting their wealth for their children and grandchildren—”

“Yes, alright, I understand.” Stomach suddenly heavy as a rock, Thorin dropped his head in his hands. “I’m a fool.”

Thranduil did not disagree, but showed surprising restraint by changing the subject. “You will inform me when your burglar returns to his kitchen so that I may know when it is once more safe to eat in the Great Hall of the Dwarven King.”

Thorin bristled, then blinked. “…You have forgiven me my uncouth behavior at the banquet last season, then?”

Thanduil’s voice was silky. “If I had not forgiven you, you would not now be dining at this table.”

“… _I_ provided the meal, Thranduil.”

“And you are still forgiven." Thranduil inclined his golden head.

Thorin stood. He fidgeted. “Bilbo might not come back," he muttered, more to himself.

“It is a poor king who cannot keep his most valuable subject loyal to him."

Resisting the urge to flip his plate of soggy lettuce into Thruanduil’s face, Thorin said, “I would like to request an escort through Mirk—Greenwo— _Rhovanion,_ King Thranduil. A fortnight hence.”

“Granted,” said Thranduil. “And I’ll be sure to help protect the borders of your kingdom while you are away. It’s the least I can do for… such a wise and thoughtful neighbor.”

“I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not.”

Thranduil graced him with a smile that did not reach his eyes; Thorin doubted many emotions had, if any. “That is the cornerstone of elven diplomacy.”

“I think you’re kidding,” said Thorin. “But I don’t actually care. And you can take that however you please.” He thundered down the elegant, winding wooden staircase, Dwalin on his heels.

“And that,” said Thranduil dryly, “is the foundation of dwarven diplomacy.”

It took Bilbo several weeks to track down all his pilfered belongings, and even more to arrange them the way he’d left them at Bag End. Relatives and neighbors alike had scoured his home, leaving nothing but the nails in the walls and bits of fluff from his pillows. In the bittersweet wake of such a welcome, Bilbo thought only briefly of planting the acorn he still carried in his pocket. It seemed more important to unpack clothes and wash napkins and rearrange furniture than go outside and dig a hole. And anyway, autumn was halfway gone. It would be better to wait for spring to plant his oak tree, wouldn’t it? But then again, having an oak tree in the yard might remind him a bit too much of…

Had his hobbit hole always been this quiet? His footsteps echoed off the bare walls, his voice sounded too loud down the empty hallways. Every time he cleared his throat or shuffled his feet or opened a door, the answering emptiness overwhelmed him. Bag End was full of _things_ , things that had meant a great deal to his parents, to his grandparents, and clearly to his uncles, aunts, and cousins, if they were brazen enough to steal them while he was out of town. But Bag End did not feel quite as homey as it once had; and no matter how many times he rearranged his armchair by the fireplace, he couldn’t quite get comfortable.

He went fishing by the river and strolling through the market, but felt as if a piece of him watched from high above as he smiled and waved at neighbors, and cleaned fish beside the stream. Hobbiton was still beautiful, still pristinely pink at dawn and glowing gold in the afternoon sun. The rolling, verdant hills studded with wildflowers still waved and whispered in the wind, the scent of growing things still lingered sweetly in the air, and the clear sky remained rich with the musical calls of birds.

He caught a trout, squeezed lemon over it, ate it in his dark kitchen, and found himself in Erebor, mentally tallying fruit shipments, wondering if he needed to go down to the docks and pick up more perch... It took a moment to reel himself back to the present, to chew his dinner, to taste it here, in his quiet house in the Shire, and realize that he was alone in a fully-furnished hole, surrounded by things other people had loved and which he could no longer be satisfied with loving, alone, in their stead.

What, really, did it matter if Thorin didn’t love him? Thorin was just one king, after all; one dwarf in a mountain of dwarves, one of thirteen fast and deserving friends. Surely rejection from one could not hurt so much as losing all others as well; and what of the fondness he felt for Bard and his family, and the people of Dale, and even, at times, Thranduil and his court? Who was this king to take all other forms of happiness from him? And who was he, Bilbo, to stand in the way of his own joys?

It was just as well the Sackville-Bagginses had snatched up his monogrammed handkerchiefs: they'd folded them and stacked them and tied them into a neat bundle that Bilbo had easily stolen back, along with his good silver. That tower of handkerchiefs still sat in the foyer, as if Bilbo had known, somehow, that the next time he walked out the door, he would need to bring them along... If nothing else, at least experience had taught him that even without a pony to activate one's allergies, one could never pack too many handkerchiefs...

It took Thorin nigh a week to cross Mirkwood, and more days than he cared to count to cover the mountain pass. Thankfully, he and his abridged company of Dwalin and Bofur encountered no trolls, though his two companions seemed disappointed not to have seen the stone giants again. Their pass through the marchlands remained similarly uncontested and they set a good pace all the way to the borders of the Shire. (Dwalin even claimed to have spotted Beorn, if only from a distance.) They had almost reached Bree when they heard the loud puffing and grumbling of a stocky figure down the road, plodding around with a sturdy walking stick and what sounded like an entire hiking bag full of jars. The company halted to let the traveler pass, but the stranger stopped in their tracks as well; the jangling of pots, pans, and jars ceased.

For a breezy moment, no one spoke; and then a voice yelled, “Thorin? Dwalin? Bofur? Is that you?”

Thorin squinted in the sunlight. “Bilbo?”

Bilbo Baggins marched up the path, huffing like he’d run miles; his face shone garnet-red. He scanned Thorin and company, suspicious as a wizard. “What are you doing here? Where are the others?” His eyes grew wide. "Don't tell me you left _Fíli_ in charge?”

“He’s under Balin’s supervision,” Thorin insisted. “Gloin’s there to keep Kíli in line. And Bard said he’d drop by periodically to make sure the mountain's still standing.” He hesitated. “Thranduil even offered to watch the border for me.”

“Thranduil," Bilbo repeated, a small smile starting in the dimples in his cheeks. 

Thorin felt his throat constrict. Dwalin nudged him. “Er,” Thorin tried, feeling like he was being choked.

"What _are_ you doing here?" Bilbo demanded.

Thorin cleared his throat. "Well," he began, still sounding strangled, "you mentioned that tea was at four."

Bilbo eyed him. He looked like he might explode, just like one of Gandalf’s better fireworks—the loud, massive ones that turned into large, glittering animals that swooped low to swallow their audience whole.

Thorin cleared his throat again, more thoroughly this time, and straightened his back. “I have… hard tack from Dale and elven lembas bread from... the Greenwood. Not nearly as tasty as any of the pastries you made for us, but…” Thorin swallowed. “I’m assuming you have an unwise amount of marmalade in your pack." He paused. "Enough to make even this... fare... remarkably palatable." He quirked a lopsided smile. "So, perhaps, if you’re amenable… we could share.”

Wind whipping through trees had never sounded so terrifyingly ominous.

“We could share,” said Bilbo finally, “if you admit that bringing marmalade is never unwise.”

“It is if the jar breaks and spills jam on your second-best brocade vest before a diplomatic dinner with three kings.”

“Oh, for the last time, that was _mud_ , not _jam_ —” Bilbo’s mouth twitched. “I suppose we could have a picnic out here.” He glanced up at the sky. “Sunshine like this is too lovely to waste.”

“We’ll meet you at the Prancing Pony,” said Dwalin, grasping Bofur by the shoulder and steering him around Bilbo. “I’d prefer proper meat to any more dry elven bricks.”

“Of course,” said Thorin; and Dwalin and Bofur set off down the road.

Thorin found a nice clearing and a patch of clean, dry grass where Bilbo slid off his pack, hauled out a nice checkered blanket, a teapot, a pair of cups, and a set of small tongs and a sugar bowl—

“Do you pack an entire tea service?” Thorin demanded.

“Yes,” said Bilbo, pulling out a pair of lacy napkins. “Now, which kind of marmalade would you like?”

“Any is fine.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Pick one.”

“Whichever’s on top.”

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, “ _what do you want?_ ”

Thorin felt his throat close. He cleared it; struggled for words, and finally said, “I want… you to have this.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a spoon. It was his best by far, and conformed perfectly to Bilbo's hand. Still, every time Thorin beheld his work, he could only see an ever-growing list of flaws. “This is for you.”

“…Oh,” said Bilbo, taking it.

“It’s made from the same spoon you gave back to me, that I carried through our adventures,” said Thorin. “I remade it because I wanted it to fit you better, and because…” He paused. “I wanted to give you something that...” He bit his upper lip, brow furrowed. “The metal of the spoon is iron. As you know, I wasn’t a king when I made it, and I didn’t have access to silver, or gold, or precious stones. The blacksmith I was just wanted to… help… everyone. Keep his people alive. I thought making things, fixing things, with hammer and tongs and blood and sweat, would make losing everything… not ache so terribly." He nodded. "I wanted you to have this spoon because... It is true that I owe you immeasurably for everything you have done; but I could never hope to repay you, even with all the gold in the mountain. And even if I thought I could, to put a finite price on such loyalty... would cheapen it. My reasons for wanting you to have something of mine are far more selfish. I'm still the rough blacksmith that made that spoon. I'm not refined, or genteel, or diplomatic; unlike you, I can't make people feel welcome, and appreciated, and familiar..." He made a frustrated noise. "I can't cook, Bilbo. But I can make the tools you need to fix things and serve them and eat them more easily, whether you're with me or no. I want to help you, and I want to support you, not because I owe you, or because I want you to reciprocate, but because I want you to be..." He took a deep breath. "I want you to know that you're... well thought-of. That you're... That you are, and always will be, appreciated, for yourself." 

Bilbo ran fingers along the end of the handle. “It’s an acorn,” he said, tracing the stylized bumps of the cap. Then, “Is this because of your terrible soup or because of the nut I carried all the way to the Lonely Mountain?”

Thorin swallowed. “It’s because… whenever I see an oak tree, I think of you.”

Bilbo ran his fingers back from the neck to the rim of the spoon bowl. Thorin watched his thumb, any lingering anger at how stubborn and unyielding the iron had behaved giving way to something far more fragile and hungry… Thorin had damn well tried to make this common, ugly spoon into something more… And maybe, in this one instance, to this one person, trying to make it work would be enough.

But, “If you don’t like it—”

“I do,” said Bilbo, voice strangely high. “I… But I can’t accept—” Thorin grimaced. “Thorin,” said Bilbo shakily, “I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner—I’m not… ungrateful for your gifts, for this spoon. I never was. They were all beautiful, even the ones you hated. I just… couldn’t accept them because they didn’t mean the same to me as they did to you.” He covered his face with his hands.

“I know," said Thorin. "I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your story before.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “If only because I had to hear it from Thranduil of all people…”

Bilbo peered through his fingers. “Then... you know?" Thorin nodded. Bilbo let out a shaky breath. "Then you must understand why I couldn’t stay, why I couldn’t stomach standing in that kitchen for the rest of my life, pretending I saw you as just a king or a friend when…” He swallowed. “But I realized, sitting all alone in Bag End, that I would miss you anyway, whether I’m in Erebor or Hobbiton. So, I would rather miss you there, among my friends, than so far away, lonely as a dragon on a hoard of cold treasure.”

“I missed you, too,” Thorin blurted before he could lose his nerve. “I thought, if I just finished the perfect dinner set, if I just gave you all the things you wanted, that you would be unable to refuse my proposal, and you’d plant that acorn and stay with me… But I didn’t think that—I didn’t try to listen and learn—what you really, actually meant when told me what you wanted—”

“Wait, wait, wait, repeat that middle part.”

Thorin blinked. “I was about to apologize—”

“You’re forgiven,” Bilbo snapped. “Now, repeat that middle-ish bit. Something about a proposal. And a dinner set. And me refusing you. Repeat that.”

“You… just… said it… all.”

“You mean to tell me,” said Bilbo, voice ascending an octave, “that you were trying to… _propose_ to me?”

Thorin squinted at him. “…What did you think I was doing?” For a moment, they just stared at each other in baffled silence. And then Thorin said, “A handmade gift is a dwarven marriage tradition,” like it was tacitly obvious, to which Bilbo yelled, “But I’m not a dwarf!”

“Well, what do hobbits do to make their intentions known?”

“This is going to sound mad,” said Bilbo, “but we have this ritual called actually proposing. With our words. Someone gets down on one knee and takes another person’s hand in theirs and asks them if they’d like to get married. And this other person either says yes or no or maybe in five years—”

“You don’t offer your intended a gift?”

“Why? Are you not, on your own, enough?”

A sweetly familiar sensation spread through Thorin’s chest.

“But how do you know the offer is sincere without an actual demonstration of ardor? A material representation of devotion? How do you prove your constance, your patience, your intimate knowledge of your partner’s interests and their inherent value to you, without showing that you would invest time and effort and focus in creating something just for them?”

“Well, by the time someone’s proposed, presumably all parties have had time to hash that out.” Bilbo leaned forward. _“With their words.”_

“I see,” said Thorin who did not see at all. “So, what you’re saying is… I should… simply ask.” He swallowed. “Bilbo, will you—”

“I can’t say _yes_!” said Bilbo shrilly.

“Why not?”

“Do I really have to list all the reasons?” When Thorin looked non-plussed, he held up his thumb. “I’m a hobbit. You’re a dwarven king rebuilding a kingdom. And I can’t imagine the mountain full of subjects you rule is going to be too thrilled about you romancing some foreigner—”

“You’re actually quite popular in Erebor,” said Thorin. “More popular than I am, at any rate. Even my sister likes you, and she rarely likes anyone.” He cleared his throat. “Bard and Thranduil both gave me their blessing, in their own way, if that makes a difference.” A pause. “What’s objection number two?”

“Well,” said Bilbo, adding his index finger, “there’s the whole… moving all my belongings to Erebor and making room for them in some suite. Because I’m not just going to dump everything I own and move around with the pack on my back like I know you all do, and I’m going to have to find loving homes for all my family’s treasures that I can't take with me—”

“We’ll make room for all your hope chests at the mountain.”

“‘We’ll make roo’—? _Listen_ to yourself!”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “You think I came all this way without a plan for moving all eight hundred of your hole-riddled napkins to Erebor?”

“They. Are. Called. Doilies.”

“What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t make room for your collection of pipes? And handkerchiefs? And fancy waistcoats?”

“Thirdly,” said Bilbo loudly, very red in the face, and enticingly close. “Thirdly. I don’t even know… I mean…” He cleared his throat. “We haven’t even…” He stopped counting on his fingers to gesture vaguely. “Are you… attracted to me? Physically? At all? Because we haven’t even kissed and you haven’t intimated at any point that—”

“I find you incredibly appealing,” Thorin said hoarsely, a heated flush spreading up his neck. He hoped his beard hid most of the color.

Bilbo swallowed. “Right. Right. Well. Ahem. Er, I feel very, very much the same. Er.”

Thorin’s stomach swooped. He kept his hands clenched tightly behind his back.

“Do you have any other… concerns you would like me to address?”

“None that I can think of,” said Bilbo weakly. “Although I will be sure to keep you apprised of further developments.”

“Then I suppose, having ‘hashed out’ the details...” Thorin stepped forward and took Bilbo’s hands. “Will you marry me?”

“Hm,” said Bilbo, sounding strangled. “Maybe in five years.”

“…But you are still coming home with me.”

Bilbo exhaled. “This is just typical,” he grumbled. “I was going to march up to Erebor and give you a piece of my mind...”

Thorin kissed him, on his burning cheeks and his stubborn chin and, finally, the soft, bitten pink of his lips. Bilbo tasted like tea, sugar, and apricot jam; and while Thorin tried to ease his breathing, his heart thundered in his ears.

“You won’t regret this,” he murmured, skimming his lips along Bilbo’s jawline to trace the pointed shell of his ear. Bilbo shivered.

“ _You_ might.”

“I doubt it.”

“Famous last words.”

“I will make you the happiest hobbit that ever lived.”

“That is a very tall order,” Bilbo breathed. “Hobbits have been perfecting creature comforts for millennia—”

Thorin kissed him again with an insistent tongue, and it suddenly seemed less important to Bilbo to educate a dwarven king on the history of hobbit culture. With roving hands, Thorin lifted Bilbo off his feet; Bilbo, in turn, netted his fingers in the loose strands of Thorin’s hair. They kissed furiously, and longingly, and deeply—just two people, trembling in each other’s arms beneath the dappled light betwixt the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to add chapter notes, so, it's a few hours after originally posting but:
> 
> Prompt came from Cephalopodqueen who has a nigh-encyclopedic knowledge of all things Middle Earth and very, very generously volunteered to read a previous draft and make suggestions. True Friends Beta Each Other's Work Even Though this was technically supposedtobeagiftbutANYWAY--
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Hope you had fun. Feel free to bother me on [tumblr](https://coffiocake.tumblr.com/), if that's your jam!


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